


Time

by Jen (ConsultingWriters)



Series: The Earpiece Collection [3]
Category: James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Rape Aftermath, more earpiece sex, now with added introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 18:24:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriters/pseuds/Jen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time passes, as it is wont to do. They have no interest in wasting what little time they have left. </p><p>
  <i>Unkind, possibly, but that is how they work. They have no time, no scope, for mercy or pity. Almost everything about their give and take relationship is entirely unkind.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time

**Author's Note:**

> Follows from "Stoicism is Overrated", and "By Proxy". This plot bunny has consumed all coherent thought. I know many readers wanted a second part to "Stoicism", but I couldn't make it work on its own, it was too contrived. So I've encorporated a lot of different reviewer ideas concerning the continuation of the series in general (masturbation ftw) as well as essentially an accompaniment piece to "Stoicism". Hopefully, you guys will think it works.
> 
> To those new here, welcome. Porn, noncon, and ideas on Bond/Q's relationship is what you missed. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Also, good god, thank you to everyone who has read/reviewed/kudos'd the previous parts - it's a real honour :)

It is going so well.

They push the bounds of credibility, in every respect. Of course they do. Two people, so vastly similar and different; they inhabit a world where danger, where death and pain and loss, know them too intimately.

They both know what it is to be used and discarded. They are toys of the British Government, after all. They are relatively dispensable; both are highly valuable, certainly, but will inevitably die in the line of duty. Q may survive longer, but given the redefined role of Quartermaster these days, even his life is less secure than it may once have been.

With such vastly abbreviated life expectancies, and the general fragility of their lives, their relationship moves intensely quickly. They had moved in together within a month. They do not have the leisure to take things slowly, or be measured or sensible.

With missions spanning the globe, and Q being an absolute work addict, they see each other as much as they are able.

Every moment apart is spent reminding the other that they are still there.

This was, at least, Bond’s excuse.

“ _I feel neglected,_ ” Bond rumbles in his ear, and Q’s mouth quirks in a vague smile. He is in Q-branch, of course, at his central computer; code runs across several dozen screens, and he is designing a new firewall for the interior communications of MI6 with some assistance from his subordinates. Communications were something of a speciality; after all, Bond was currently speaking through an entirely private line. He had focused it in after the latest attempt by Eve to hack in.

Three months have passed since Q was raped. He remembers, of course, in detail. He has also been moving on, to a great degree at least.

He killed Lee O’Brian, in the end. He was the first person Q had ever killed with his own hands; several had died through Q’s orders, through Q’s designs, through bombs and hands wielding guns, but never before like this. 

He had watched Bond through terribly cold eyes, as Bond took apart O’Brian until he was a shell of a human being. Bond looked to him at one stage, raised an eyebrow, and Q didn’t flinch; he merely watched, as Bond broke two fingers and dislocated a shoulder.

Bond didn’t torture people, as a general rule. Yet he had very little compunction about entirely destroying this bastard, who had taken a young man and made his gaze uncomfortably fathomless.

When both of them decided enough was enough, Q walked forward. He took his own gun, a 9mm Glock, and shot O’Brian through the temple. Neither Bond nor Q spoke. It seemed a little superfluous.

There wasn’t a single drop of blood on Q as he turned around, and walked away. M tried one, rather uncomfortable, conversation about Q’s ability to work. Q blinked, raised an eyebrow. M just sighed, and waved him away.

They don’t have time to take things slowly, or carefully. Q fucks Bond into ecstasy barely three weeks later, and they both know it is too soon, but they do it anyway because next time, maybe they’ll decide to kill him instead.

There is no doubt in either of their minds that there will one day be a ‘next time’.

“I have no doubt, Bond,” Q retorts, smirking, tapping out codes. “This is what happens when you miss your flight home.”

“ _You, of course, couldn’t find me another?_ ” Bond drawls.

“I do have other things to be getting on with,” Q says with a soft laugh. “You’ll have to wait it out.”

“ _I figured that,_ ” Bond retorts. “ _I’ll have to find some way to amuse myself. I have some time._ ”

“By all means,” Q returns absentmindedly, taking a sudden breath as Bond groans, in a way Q certainly recognises.

Sex is communication, in a world where words are lies. Bond and Q were intelligent enough to trust nothing that was said. They had physical responses. It was all they had. The knowledge that they were wanted, that they were equal, their passion and brilliance could be properly expressed.

“Bond, is now the time?” Q asks, throat closing slightly.

“ _I don’t see why not_.”

“You are… I am working!” Q squeaks, suddenly aware that while only he could hear Bond, the rest of Q-branch can hear his responses. They all know that Bond and Q are in a relationship, and even that they are connected via earpieces, but they really do not need to know the extent of their sexual proclivities.

“ _I have finished work, and am currently stranded in Argentina, so I’m going to make your life hell_ ,” Bond says happily, and moans again. Q knows Bond’s body so intimately, knows what to do to create those sounds, almost exactly. Bond’s sounds are more eloquent than his words, and he is finely tuned and, for Q at least, easy to play.

Bond doesn’t treat him like glass, and Q can’t help but love him more acutely for that. He adapts to Q’s needs; when Q suddenly freezes and pushes away, he makes a slightly sarcastic comment about his diminishing sexual prowess and holds Q tight to his chest simultaneously. When Q kisses him with just a shadow of desperation, he moves with him, trusting Q enough to tell him if he needs to stop.

Sometimes Q tells him, sometimes he doesn’t. There have been some horrific failings on both parts, like when Q decided he was ready for Bond to top two weeks ago. Bond had raised an eyebrow, asked, and trusted that Q knew what he was doing, because trying to tell Q what to do was an absolute losing battle which usually ended in screaming and broken crockery.

It was good while it lasted, for both parties. Yet afterwards, Q cried in absolutely silence, and Bond dealt with the guilt that crawled under his skin like live insects. They both should have known better, but they hadn’t, and Bond was excellent when it came to dealing with the fallout, in either direction.

And every once in a while, he tests the limits in a very explicit way.

“ _I miss you, you know,_ ” Bond pants, and the noise he makes is the one that Q can illicit through a light squeeze, tantalising him. “ _It says a fair amount about my life that you seem to know how to make me come better than I do…_ ”

Q swallows, hard.

“Give me five minutes,” he mutters, quiet enough that nobody else can hear him. Bond snorts.

“ _I don’t want to wait_ ,” he says frankly, and gives another indulgent groan. Q’s breath snatches; they haven’t done this for a while, not since before The Incident, as Q now calls it in his head with the inherent capital letters. 

“I do,” Q replies, in a deliberate tone. Bond seems to somehow miss this. Q strongly suspects that he’s simply ignoring him; Q is more than able to pull the ‘I was raped’ card if he wants, but not at random intervals just because Bond is able to give him a hard-on through a few well-timed and intonated groans. Bond is intelligent enough to know a manipulation when he sees one.

Unkind, possibly, but that is how they work. They have no time, no scope, for mercy or pity. Almost everything about their give and take relationship is entirely unkind.

_Bond holds Q close in the middle of the night and lets him sob jaggedly without speaking, and Bond’s kindness comes in never asking why. Q lets Bond destroy everything in the vicinity, screaming out at the world in the only way he knows how – through destroying things – and Q’s kindness is in clearing up the mess._

Quite frankly, the rasp of Bond’s voice “ _I want to be with you, Q, I want to make you come without even needing to touch your cock…_ ” is more than enough to send Q’s reason spiralling away down some metaphorical plughole.

“I need quiet, I’ll be in my office,” Q says abruptly to his subordinates, and with as decorum as he can muster while acutely aware of an erection, he slides awkwardly into his office and shuts the door. It locks automatically, and Q slides against it with a moan.

“Bond, you will be the literal death of me,” he whines, palming the front of his trousers.

“ _Of course I will be_ ,” Bond replies, and both pause for a moment – it’s too uncomfortably true, and no secret agents can handle truth of any variant. Truth is sublimated, and replaced by tangible action.

“Bond, your flight will be in a few hours. I will need to get back to work at some stage,” Q pants instead, both intensely turned on and intensely irritated at Bond for disturbing him. At some stage they will need to talk about this. Yet Q can’t quite deny that he is grateful for the sudden snap from the work environment he used to sell every waking moment to.

“ _You can spare a little time_ ,” Bond states correctly. “ _You can always spare time to feel me inside you…”_

“Switch,” Q says sharply, voice taking on just the slightest shadow of distress. Bond doesn’t skip a beat; Q is not manipulating this time, and so he just changes tack with customary perfection. 

“ _Or indeed, you inside me,_ ” Bond sighs down the microphone. Q smiles to himself; they switch around in bed constantly, variety being far more interesting than stereotype. Q tends to bottom ( _used to_ ) – he relinquished his ridiculous control over his life to Bond, just to Bond, and both understand the importance of that. 

At the same time, it is intoxicating to see Q fully embody the power he possesses; his genius, his dominance, his control. Q enjoyed the scope to be omnipresent, in Bond’s ear and his mind and his body. It is not exactly a hardship for Q to be on top, for the time being, at least. 

“ _God, you fill me so well,_ ” Bond whines, and Q can just see the bastard splayed against the bed sheets of some foreign hotel room, hard and leaking, imagining Q fucking him. Q breathes out the tension that instinctively threads in his body at the thought of any sex at all, and allows himself to enjoy it. 

“Bond, I…" 

“ _Touch yourself, Q,_ ” Bond orders. Q lets out a long exhale, pushing a hand into his trousers, surprised by how fervently his body is responding; even when actually with Bond, he has found a notable dampening in the enthusiasm of his sexual responses. 

Now, he can feel one of the most genuine responses he’s managed since The Incident, and he tells Bond as much, even as his hand closes around his cock. “ _Good_ ,” Bond says simply. “ _So squeeze now, lightly. Lighter than that. I want you desperate, not just quick in your office, we can do that any time._ ” 

“Optimistic of you,” Q snorted, obeying Bond’s orders. 

And god, they _did_ do that any time. Literally any time. Bond would stride into Q-branch, and they would chat about nothing in particular, and everybody would pretend they didn’t know what was going on behind closed doors. 

Once, anyway. It has admittedly been less frequent since The Incident. Bond hates that Q has it so clinically placed in his mind; it doesn’t make sense to anaesthetise out a traumatic incident. Bond never has. It doesn’t make a tremendous amount of sense; he accepts everything in his past, however unpleasant, however immediate. 

He knows, for example, that Q was raped because of his actions. It was a vengeful act, based on his indiscretion, and if he hadn’t had sex with one admittedly beautiful woman, Q would not have to physically and mentally heal from rape. 

He also knows that is nothing he can do. It happened. It doesn’t matter what he thinks about it, nor indeed what Q thinks about it. It happened, and that cannot be changed. What matters now is how they deal with it. 

Q does as he is directed; Bond tells him to start stroking, and he whimpers vaguely as he does, and begins to thrust into his fist. “ _You look beautifully debauched_ ,” Bond growls, and Q laughs. 

“You don’t have cameras in here,” he returns. He knows this as a statement of fact. His office is perhaps the most protected place in the United Kingdom, if not parts of Europe. The door is weighted steel with a faux-wood finish, the entirety of it is bulletproof, and the technology is so ridiculously encrypted it borders on frightening. 

It is the only place in the world where Q feels safe on his own. His sanctuary, within the first place he called home. The only place he feels safe is with Bond. Peculiar. 

It is perhaps concerning that he considers a secret service headquarters home. Then again, most people in MI6 do. It is the preserve of the orphaned and alone, those who have nothing but brilliance and drive, and no _people_ to interrupt. 

Not for the first time, Q wonders what in the hell Bond ever saw in him. Bond is the womaniser, the man who seduces the femme fatales, who would never once have admittedly to bisexuality at gunpoint. Yet now he is the voice in Q’s ear, the one Q willingly invited there, in his ear and in his head, and he’s remarkably welcome. 

Bond details how he would lick a long line up the underside of Q’s cock, and Q gasps with want and bucks harder into his fist. Heat begins to flood from his toes upwards. He hasn’t masturbated since The Incident. He loves Bond more than ever before for showing him how to move on, forcing him – rightly or wrongly – to just keep going. 

Love. Oh. Well. There’s a new one. Not entirely unexpected, not at this stage, but it is nevertheless completely bloody terrifying. Bond orders him to come, and he does, hard and breathless. Oh _jesus_ , this complicates things. 

“Bond,” Q murmurs, sticky and dazed with his own realisation. 

“ _Yes?_ ” Bond asks, his voice showing the smug smile he is doubtless wearing. 

Q sighs softly. “Nothing,” he says eventually. Bond knows, after all. He knew a long time before Q did. 

Q shrugs to himself, and speaks quiet words to an empty room, to the voice in his ear, wondering how long this can all last. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading.
> 
> I have another part already in the pipeline, but am still happily searching for any further ideas as to how this series can go. Porn or not, all is welcome, I'm just enjoying playing with their relationship at the moment!
> 
> Take care now :) Reviews/kudos are lovely things, if you have a moment or the inclination.


End file.
